Knife In A Bird
by Quarter 'till Class
Summary: I didn't think I was prepared to die. Although the idea had never truly frightened me as much as was normal. I imagine my expression was tired and woeful, but my concerns were towards the darkness present and expanded by night. I knew who this was. I recognized his work, his expertise. His swift ruthlessness and clean execution. Talon x Quinn
1. From Three To One

**Disclaimer: All and any ****League of Legends**** champion names belong to Riot. No OC's are included within this work, indicating that nothing is claimed or owned by the author, Quarter 'till Class. No copyright infringement is intended. Plagiarism is theft so is prohibited. Do not copy or create a reproduction of this work in any language without express written authorization of the author, Quarter 'till Class. Thank you. Please enjoy.**

_**Talon x Quinn**_

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: I admit that Talon is a hard cookie to write. If you play his champion, he's actually a smug, sadistic little ass that likes to cut things. And he laughs a great deal. Other readings and people's head-canons tell otherwise. I would appreciate some feedback to help me out in the writing process.

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><p><strong>Chapter One: From Three to One<strong>

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><p>I would never describe it as morally righteous, but his talents were beyond commendable. The only sound was something thin and swift, the pain hardly notable before the very bitter and eternal sleep. Either that or something lasting, though still not long. Still not excruciating. But as your hands grip at your own blood, the thought and fear of death festers in your head until you finally give. The expression the victims wear strikes guilt into my soul, and my failure to protect is beyond regrettable.<p>

They sent three of us. Scouts. Four if anyone would properly count Valor. They were young, and I was supposed to lead them, guide them...protect them. We were to venture through foreign, Noxian territory, eyeing the placement and status of opposing forces. Then turn around and warn Jarvan IV of any possible obstacles or hazards his battalion may face. This war brewed for so long, awaiting it's point of initiation. Each state preparing themselves. I had remained optimistic, though many of my colleagues had called me naive.

Three scouts. Why three? That was so many. Too many. Myself, a young man named Mozan, and a petit thing named Xana. I was told it would be training, nothing dangerous, serious, or threatening...only on-field training. Their second time in only mild danger, which was nothing compared to my initial experience beyond safety. But the very stillness of the forest had caused me discomfort, and as Valor, flying above us, let out a shriek of warning, it had been too late. We were light on our feet, though it did not mimic stillness. My footsteps were unheard, but the slight, uncontrolled fumbles of these recruits had given us away. The subtle but unnatural shift of leaves...or the crisp sound of snapping twigs.

I listened to Valor's call, but as I tensed myself, observing the area, the brief choking sobs of struggle diverted my attention. I shot towards the last sensed direction of our antagonist and bolted towards the suddenly wounded: Xana. I watched as she crumbled, knees folding and body falling gracelessly to the ground. Her hands were clawing desperately at her throat, blood pulsing and seeping from the wound, clean and brief, elegant in its length and depth. As I held her, I told her to rest in my kindest voice, and she died.

I turned to Mozan, who stood ready with his bow. When I began to speak, perhaps a warning or a retreat, the wisp of metal cutting air interrupted me. He painfully cried as several blades reached into him from the darkened corners between trees. They were quickly embedded, yanked from his chest, and pulled back as though attached to strings.

Blood followed the motion of the weaponry, his gags of horror silenced with death. All before his body even touched the floor. I could feel the horror on my face, the chill in my bones was indescribable. I shot at the threat yet again, Valor swooping downward and hiding within the upward branches. He would be my eyes as always.

I don't think I was prepared to die. Although the idea had never truly frightened me as much as was normal. I imagine my expression was tired and woeful, but my concerns were towards the darkness present and expanded by night. I knew who this was. I recognized his work, his expertise. His swift ruthlessness and clean execution.

I was enraged, but I somehow remembered to be calm. Mozan's corpse lay there with a haunting stillness. Xana had a terror in her lidded eyes, and their youth reminded me of Caleb. My failure. My loss.

I waited a minute with my back against the largest three within ten feet, and initiated verbal contact.

"Talon."

I spoke easy, demanding a meeting. Demanding an explanation. Speaking in a casual tone despite my seething anger. My defeat and disappointment.

"Girl," he says. He mocks me without any humor in his voice. Though I have never recalled him to find much of anything funny, other than stabbings.

"They did nothing wrong." My voice is accusing, even as I lower my crossbow. It beckons him out of the shadows and causes him to stand there with a scowl. "They were young."

His expression goes unchanged. "They were Demacians."

"Then in all of our meetings, why have I yet to earn a blade to the throat?"

His scowl faded a bit, a perplex expression (from what little I could see of his face) made my stomach clench in disdain. He was considering it...

My hand wrapped around the shiv tucked at the arch of my back. Valor tells me such movements are instinctual.

"If you had killed me in all of our exchanges, then they wouldn't be dead." He attempts to instill guilt in me...and it works. I clench my teeth, balling my hands into fists, further gripping my cross bow and shiv. Tensing. I can feel the anger moving through my blood.

"Then show some respect. It's their lives for yours." My calm was slightly irked...or perhaps more than slightly. He toyed with me so frequently. He finds me amusing. Like a child's pet or doll. And I have an everlasting fascination. An unhealthy, unlawful one.

I have been told countless things. Lux claims that my fascination is vengeance. That there are reasons to believe he murdered Caleb in his youth. Jarvan states that it is the will I have to fight for Demacia, and that I am plagued with the idea of victory and justice. That I wish to eliminate a toxin of Runeterra. I simply believe he has caused me anguish and insanity. I believe he has tortured me. I believe that I need to know why.

He glances to either side, eyeing the bodies of my scouts. I could watch him think for hours. The simple expression of constant consideration forever etched upon his features, taunting those who beg for life as their throats sit beneath his blades. His arms, folded, relax to his sides, and he finally averts his attention back to me.

"I would be further hailed if I end this now. The Wings of Demacia...broken, in my hands."

A threat. I loath him. I have never hated much in this world, save war, but Talon is the only other exception. The only individual I find myself incapable of killing, be it mercy or simply because I cannot. The only petty assassin who is devoted and obsessed with a long lost Du Couteau.

"And I would save a multitude of Demacians lives if I chose to stop your aggression," I snap at him, still somehow breathing evenly.

"Then kill me." He states and I grit my teeth. I listen to the very brief rustles of Valor's wings, several yards within the trees.

"I can't." I admit it through my teeth, spiteful. I have considered him my rival since the very day I escaped with only a meager portion of my health. I had once saved his life from arrow inflicted poison, costing him his hand...but he has since mended another back on without repercussion. Or perhaps had the aid of magic to develop another. However, my strength hardly matches his own. It intimidates me, and yet I confront him as though I am Garen to Sona.

His hood conceals more of his face and he shifts his weight. His bladed arm slacks a bit more to his side. His scowl grows, and I imagine he's become impatient.

"Then why can't I kill you." I hear him mutter such a blank, monotonous question. Hardly perplexed. Hardly infatuated. Though he is the type to become obsessive over things he finds minutely interesting. Blades. Du Conteau. Murder.

He looks at me, I can tell, but I didn't know the answer. I only felt despise.

"You kill so easily-"

"Says a scout with her arrows coated in the blood of hundreds."

"I've proven myself." I hold my tongue. I go too far, though the truth seems appealing to blurt out in such a heated debate. I've considered telling him before, though I imagine my death follows the devastating truth.

"And you chastise me?" His smirk is outrageous. His voice defies his expression, thick tone seeping with insult. Humorless.

I'm done listening to him. "What are you doing here, Talon? What have they offered you now that's worth scouting enemy territory?"

"The arriving Demacian unit will have information I require...evidence." He lessens our distance, my back further digging into the bark of the tree. "The one several kliks behind you, attempting to be stealthy."

It was like a switch. My anger seethed from my breath, choking my words as I tensed. I could feel my calm dissipate.

"Valor, go!" I hear Valor's wings slap at the air, and he's off to warn Jarvan. I stare back at my opponent, every vein pulsing with fear and rage. "I'll kill you."

"You can't."

"One day we will. One day I'll have Jarvan's permission to specifically hunt _you_ down, Talon. No accidental meetings, or sneak attacks, no unprepared death. Valor's shadow will be the first thing you see, and I will be the last."

He's invasive of my personal space. His bladed arm is slack against the very quick pulse in my neck. He's too close. I'm willing to bite him should he agitate me further. But this fear is irrational and paralyzing. The treat of death sits before me in the shape of a blade. I am terrified of this monster. No matter how much I deny or conceal it. Yet I taunt him and insult him. I'm brilliant.

"And if I slice the throat of the heir to the throne? Make all of _"Jarvan's"_ experience and accomplishments worth nothing, would you come find me despite superior authority?" He chuckles at me. He finds humor in me...my responses. Mocks me. My threats are meager and hold no actuality in his eyes. And I often wonder, after our many tiffs and conversations, if I took them seriously myself.

It was odd...every single time we would meet. He'd disappear on me. Leave without injuring me or mentally scarring me. Without devastating my ability whatsoever. I knew I would die against him. I cannot kill him alone and directly. His skills and strength outweigh my own. But the question remains: why has he never once attempted to kill me?

Is it because I had once saved his life? Even at the cost of a hand? Even so, that is only returned once. Not several times over.

I think of Jarvan, suddenly. How much I adore and respect a man who's seen every horror from Ionia to The Void. The prestige and determination that radiate from such an incredible leader astound me daily. The way he holds my cheek as a wish for protection before sending me off. The disapproval on his face as I return, wounded and starved. My anger at Talon grows. And I decide, on a whim, that the truth is necessary. My lips part and I seethe bitterness and vile intentions. I smile in admitting what made me so respected and appreciated, stating it through my teeth.

"I would put an arrow in your skull, like I did to your beloved Du Couteau."

How un-Demacian of me.

His smile vanished. Instantly. It leaves his face as though attached to a switch. I feel his hand around my neck tighten, the blade of his arm pressing further at a very slow and painful rate. His entire body tenses. His jaw is stiff suddenly, and I can smell the blood as it pours from my skin. Such a small wound on my jugular terrifies me. But I determined my fate. I stare at him, in his eyes, and await what is to come as his expression turns sour and gruesome.

I struggle to speak. His grip is too firm.

"How many battles _Talon_? How long have we played hawk and prey? I knew this entire time. And how many times did you walk away from me? Mock me and vanish, only to leave the answer you've spent years searching for."

He doesn't move, still. He maintains his hold. Frozen. Shocked for whatever reason. Staring me down and contemplating what he should do. I see the process as we go eye to eye. I see my reflection in his irises, even despite the dark. I make out his hair and face, something I've known is rare. I rasp a laugh out. The pain is lasting and numbing, and the trickle of blood running down my neck continues to grow.

"There is no evidence in the next battalion." I sound tired and hoarse. "The criminal you've wanted for so long is between your fingers."

End it. End it. I want him to end it.

His motions are swift and I anticipate the very terrifying thought of death. I apologize to my brother and my bird. I send a prayer to the creators and hold my breath. He slices my neck...and leaves the most mild and casual cuts over my throat. It was hardly painful. His arm shakes, blade piercing the surface tree out of what I assume is rage. My fingers bleed as I grip rugged bark, the smell of nature comforts as I take in shaken breaths.

He still has not killed me.

"Why?" He asks, in a tone I cannot define. I stare at his teeth, grit and tense.

"You needed to know," I say. As though I am wiser. As if I knew anything about him.

"Shut up!" He dismisses me violently with a strong wave of his arm, expression angry. Stature rigid and tense. Eyes concealed and emotions still somehow obvious.

"Kill me."

I must have trusted him. A murderer. A Noxian. Because I laid my life in his trembling, uncertain hands. I taunted him and gambled my life to satisfy my own desire to know. I asked for what I fear most, daring a criminal of beastly nature to slaughter me where I stood.

But he leaves. He is gone so quickly, and so silently. I fall to my knees. I examine the death around me, with faces of terror and open eyes. They stared at me, blaming me...despising me with what was left of their existence. The cold went unnoticed until now, crawling up my skin. The stench of blood abundant in the air. And I can hear the rugged sound of reinforcements approaching at unbelievable speeds, still a fair distance away.

I hear Valor caw, and I sit and wait.


	2. Obsession

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: Talon is still difficult to write. Working on chapter three. I'm thinking weekly updates? Please review and give opinions! Ideas are also welcomed!

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: Obsession<strong>

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><p>I had cried once, eaten twice, and slept several nights and days prior to meeting with Jarvan IV. I had tried to rest outside of slumber, without success. I had stumbled in sheets and wrangled with pillows, tossing myself around out of self loathing and regret. I had nightmares. I fought with the physical and mental agony that came with regret. Initially, they had haunted me. Mozan and Xana; their blood soaked bodies idle and crooked. Both of them and the many I've seen fall victim to his monstrous need for death. I can't even remember half of their names.<p>

I began to think they would haunt me eternally. But eventually, within three of my four days off, they faded from my memory. Talon replaced them. He alone plagued my mind. I saw him slaughtering in my dreams, unfazed by the destruction he caused. Stoic towards the tragedy that followed him. He held me by my throat, carrying me towards an unforeseen destination with a strength I couldn't believe. My either unconscious body or deceased carcass had been clutched by a single hand of nimble fingers and astounding grip. I could feel the tension in his joints.

This detail and realness disturbed me. Valor states it is a simple dream. Nothing like a premonition; I was in no danger. A simple haunting due to my unnecessary guilt and fear. Due to Talon's endless fascination focused on what he considered a toy. Myself.

I checked out books. Watched security footage from Piltover. Briefly scanned documents involving his strategy and reasoning. Garen provided me with military documentation. Nothing I required. So much paper with nothing on it. So much waste for so little information. His real name? Where he came from? Who he knew? Hardly anything.

I sit before Jarvan like a timid child. Hands on my knees, hunched over from mental exhaustion. I shake my head as I speak. "I couldn't stop him. I couldn't even see him."

Jarvan looks at me with sympathy from behind the desk which he so rightfully despised. Says it's constricting and uncomfortable, but documentation is necessary. I await his decision within his supposed "office", distracted from our discussion.

"I accept the penalties." I await his ruling.

There's a dullness in his eyes. No fire or rage. A deep lack of expression. It disturbs me further. It indicates that we were losing this war.

"We cannot afford high ranking losses at this time. We have more recruits willing to take their place, Quinn." His tone is friendly but his words are distant. I turn away and glance towards his window. I didn't want to listen.

My tongue is pained to speak. I swallow several times over. I'm tired. "I lost two untrained in the field. I was the only one left alive. I was incapable, and I proved myself unfit to defend."

"It is not a severe loss, Quinn." He talks as though he were selling me something. Like his common product of bravery. "They will be replaced, but they will be honored for their sacrifice in protecting Demacia's Wings."

His attempts at consolation upset me even more.

"Don't talk to me like I'm a civilian, Jarvan. Like you need to instill hope in me. I don't need your prideful orations about the will of Demacia and it's timid people." I feel words purging from my mouth, frustrated and impatient.

"Quinn."

"Don't look at me and try to find justice in unnecessary death. Don't try to make excuses for because of some mocking title."

"_Quinn_."

"I came to you as your friend, not your scout. I needed anything but that pointless facade you show your father and your people." I seethe hatred. I have never felt this angry, flustered, and belittled. I snap at him, spitting bitterness and disappointment. Things I had never before dared utter. Things I knew I would regret. "They were practically kids, Jarvan! They had no training. No experience."

"One matched your age."

"It has nothing to do with age and you know that." I admit it was a quick and defensive comment. I'm falling apart.

"What do you want me to do? Cast out one of my very best for the sake of your emotional dilemma? Force the front lines to go in blind because your morals say you need to be punished?"

"No." I don't know what I want. I have no solid idea. I don't know what to do nor where to begin. I am cornered. And I need room to fly.

"You're trained for these situations. You have to handle this. There is no bad blood on your hands, Quinn. Not yet. Be grateful." His expression is rugged and stoic. He scowls and stands to leave, posture rigid and stressed and powerful. "You have three more days in recovery due to emotional trauma. That's all we can afford to provide you. Another battalion threatens us."

He lays a solid, heavy, burdened hand on my shoulder before leaving. Poisonous thoughts are racing as fast as Valor's wings in my mind. Spite and outrage. Vengeance and regret. What was I expecting, waltzing in here? A slap to the face? Being removed from the field of battle? Aggression? Of course not. I had hoped for a temporary suspension. A way to clear my mind and expel this exhausting fear and hatred. A way to rest myself prior to returning. Clarity and peace. It takes a moment of walking expressionless before I find an outrageous solution. I've decided on what I need to do. I know what I desire and I understand, suddenly, how to redeem myself in the eyes of the many slaughtered.

In the next three days I will leave Demacia to find my target. I will travel across neutral territory and track him down. And with caution, I will kill Talon.

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><p>I planned to sleep through the afternoon with intentions of departing when I awake at night. But I did not sleep. As I close my eyes he stares back at me from beneath his hood, threatening my very existence. I cannot recall his features. As I see him, he is inhuman. A being hidden in knives and cloaks. A monster in disguise, charismatic and cunning. He haunts me. I see him in the corner of my eye. The small creaks of wood flooring, even ruckus in other rooms crawl into my skin. He's here, I think to myself. To execute the mistake he allowed. To clean his work and reclaim his merciless reputation.<p>

Am I obsessed?

I prepare. Dressing myself. Arming my belt with additional shivs. Another goes in my boot lining. I pack arrows and potions. I wouldn't need food. I go days without food or sleep. I'm accustomed to the lifestyle of a restless scout, and desperation can be settled by living off the land. I stare at myself in the mirror, tired and nostalgic. The cut he left on my neck is healing slowly, and the redness makes me nauseous. The light in the room is deep and low from sunset. All I have to do is wait.

I'm patient, with hands on my armored knees, awaiting nightfall. It was personal signal to leave, a time of choosing simply due to convenience. I sit in front of my window, flinching at the sway of curtains. The image of him lunging inside, impaling me with his bladed arm without hesitation or strain. It would take Talon little time and even less effort to attempt an assassination.

Even as I sit here, protected by the walls and people of Demacia, the magic and strength, I am endangered. I become more prepared, finding a state of conscious meditation as a form of preoccupation. Buy my mind keeps reeling. I tense myself and force the calm carefulness of high alert. I examine my personal room several times over. Like he's hiding in the wardrobe. As though he's taunting me with that sullen laugh.

I will not cower from him. He haunts me as though he were dead. Talon frightens me and threatens my life...but I will not tremble and sob in the presence of a man who takes joy from misery. I am strong willed and I am determined. I am capable and I am swift. I want to live, but killing him is so necessary. I cannot show weakness in such a vital mission. I cannot earn the disappointment of those I love. I truly believe that I am capable of ending this unspoken rivalry.

Valor shuffles his wings in his sleep. The noise does not disrupt or caution me. I'm so used to it. It's so familiar. And that slight ruffle somehow calms me. Like a child's snore to a mother. I stand and approach him to stroke his feathers. He deserves rest. The sun is setting.

Talon shall never kill again.

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><p>I travel by the trees, but eventually make my way back to the ground. My legs can take an increased amount of elevation and distance, but I have an unusually long way to go. The lack of company makes me paranoid, and the lack of sight raises my awareness.<p>

Valor disagreed with my better judgement. He found Jarvan's argument sound. So while he slept, I departed.

When I return to the last place of meeting, my nausea renders me incapable. Their bodies were assuredly taken by Jarvan's battalion. And in spite of my emotions and regret...I cannot recall their names. I can hardly remember their faces. All I see is him.

I use my position as an excuse. My higher authority and long term experience. I tell myself that it's the hundreds of scouts, trainees, and soldiers among me that have clouded my facial remembrance and recognition. That anyone would have forgotten them as quickly as I have. Their blood still stains the dirt and grass. Two dark puddles that appear black against moonlight breaking through trees.

I leave it behind and pursue my objective. There is nothing else I can do.

I find clues in that clearing and more a mile or so towards Noxus.

As I venture further, the clues dissipating, it occurs to me. I've found a piece of cloth. Foot prints. Blood tracks. Unnatural disturbances that I knew he inflicted upon the nature of these woods. But it was all set up. Talon knows me. He knows I'm looking. He's playing as his own bait.

He's challenging me, and anticipates my arrival. It frightens me even more. However, I refuse to cower.

There are worse things than Talon. Creatures of the void. The undead. Soul reapers. There are things and people in this world, in Runeterra alone, that rip flesh off bone and devour the innocent. Talon is not our worst fear, but he is what haunts me. I could imagine Karthus, Rek'sai, or Thresh. I could consider so many other murderous beings. But my obsession does not cloud my judgement. He is the swiftest hand at a blade. He is deadly. As much as any of those nightmares. But he is not what I should be fearful of. I admit that much.

Even as I swiftly stalk through these trees, hunting down the man who very possibly could slit my throat, I being to wonder if I will survive this encounter. And what would that mean for Demacia? The best of her kind, gone. I'm not modest in what I do. I earned my place among the higher ranks. I earned prestige for myself and my brother. I know I am a threat. One of the best in a dying race.

I continue to pursue him. I do not intend to live through this battle, but I find myself determined. I admit I may be the slightest bit obsessed, seeing his shadow in every swiftly passing darkness between the trees. But I feel eager to find him. There's this adrenaline that pulses through me. The very cause of my brother's fascination with battle and risk. I feel it in my veins. I am ready to challenge him.


	3. Closure

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: So I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I think Sona is my new main? She kicks ass AP mid. Makes people cry. I love it.

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><p><strong>Chapter Three: Closure<strong>

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><p>It was mid-day when I found him.<p>

He was waiting for me, miles outside of Noxian territory. He was lounging in a tree as though disinterested, completely calm. And when I approached him, cautious and quiet, I had every intention of killing him. But he was too quick for me. He had stood and cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders to stretch out resting aches. And he made our situation a distant stand off. Lacking his usual bladed cloak, but still fitted with the usual weapons and attire.

He scares me. For years I had hardened my emotional resolve. I had trained myself to wear something of either seriousness or confidence in battle. I had contained any fear or emotion in honor of my brother, who had feared and exposed nothing of himself nor others. And Talon pushes me too far. Causes me to lose control of my own self. Taunts the years of training and learned lessons away with only a voice of intimidation.

And as I face him now, I maintain a state of calm. I swallow reflexively at the look he throws in my direction. The one he's now focusing on. The look of hatred and conflict and aggravation.

He lacks his hood. I've never seen him before. It's like seeing a legend. Some horrid myth your mother told you about to prevent bad behavior. He's normal. He looks human and average upon first glance. But I know what he is. Old, faded scars. Exhaustion in age. Darker skin than I imagined. He has the walk and posture of a calm and collected murderer. The looks of a charismatic gentleman and the words of the educated and wealthy.

I decide to open my mouth, but hesitate. The words are right but my throat trembles for reasons unknown. I speak slowly as though illiterate. "I need to stop you. In honor of those you've taken."

His eyes narrow at me; malicious and bitter, warm and dark. He could kill me so easily. He doesn't say a word.

I wish Valor was here. I long for the usual companionship that I've relied on so often. It's a security I crave and trained with. And without it, I feel naked. My emotions are more cautious than hateful. Mixed thoughts and unpleasant considerations run through my mind. He has yet to attack me, but the thick vibes of murderous intent radiated from his form in the most obvious of ways.

Still, I don't understand. I felt I hated him, but it never lasts. I feel spite instead. Fear and hesitation. I'm stuck between Bilgewater and the Shadow Isles. Seconds of silence are torturous.

He glowers at me, still patient despite the situation. He finally speaks, and I jump at the noise. "Only fools pledge life to honor."

His words don't surprise me; he trades his skills for information about Du Conteau. It would make sense that his loyalties are not towards militia or generals...or any Noxian position, really. And I question his loyalty to even himself. But many military documents stated his involvement in a Crimson Elite. Perhaps his only loyalty.

"I will bring your victims closure." I say as though I'm threatening. The more I pretend I'm capable the more I believe it.

He holds his hand to his forehead. A look of disapproval and disappointment, I assume. An expression of tiresome displeasure at my choice of words, if nothing else. His shoulders slouch forward and for a moment...he seems nearly human. He scowls in my direction and straightens his resolve. "Shame."

He throws a blade at me. I narrowly dodge it, and within less than a second he's beside it, removing the weapon from the stiff earth. What I have been waiting for ensues. It's a tough struggle that is unbalanced and constant. Back and forth between swiftness and aim, strength and wit, ability and focus. He uses his environment to his advantage and I simply bolt straight into action with the valor that Jarvan instilled within me. I take no time to survey what could benefit me in launching arrows. My methods have yet to fail me.

He uses higher ground in the trees, so I follow. I am good in high ground. I know this by experience alone. But for some reason he surpasses my level of expertise. I feel blade after blade catch at my arms, slowing me down. My cheek feels sore. My arms are weakening from blood loss. By the time the air turns cold, our battle nears the ugly and indefinite end. I am still bleeding profusely, and I can feel one of his blades stuck in my back between the spacing of my armor.

I lean against the width of a large tree, balanced on a high branch. The pain is unearthly and I squeeze my eyes shut for only a moment to find a brief or lasting relief. I have never acted so stupid or foolish; blinding myself. Within the moment I hear him beside me, taking advantage of my idiocy. I know that I've lost. And as I open my eyes, he stands before me, scowling, and lacking his usual audacity.

I only smile at him, because arrows protrude from his arms and chest. I see where I've skimmed his face and neck. I have never felt so humored. So light. I ring out the most genuine laugh, and I truly feel happy at my pointless attempts. My ability and my sloppiness. The one time I needed to be swift and accurate...I wasn't. It's funny.

He pauses. He's staring. I feel him looking at me through short, messy hair. Is he judging me? Analyzing me? Considering torturing me? My obsession has led to my untimely end, and to the hand of the man I can honestly call my rival. I disgrace all that I stand for. And in my delusion, I think it's hilarious. I laugh off my omission.

"Funny girl," he says. I can't tell if he's smiling or not. Humoring me or mocking me.

He grabs me by my neck and shoves my entires body aside. I have nothing to provide me balance or stability; I fall. I have no time to think. I have no time to react in such a swift movement and quick plummet. I twist mid air to avoid landing on the blade, and instead land on my hip from a fairly high place on rugged dirt and grass. The energy is drained from my body instantaneously. It's broken. I feel it. It's shattered. The pain renders me silent.

I have lost.

I lay a heap of blood and failure. I am ashamed and silent. I avert my gaze from his approaching walk towards the roots of a nearby tree. I lack the necessary hatred and fear. I simply accept this. I leapt into my fate without thought or consideration, blinded by my distress and grief. I can do nothing to prevent it. My humor still lingers. I catch myself gagging on a chuckle. I taste blood.

"You fought distracted," he says.

He bullshits me. His smirk somewhat appealing as I glance up, hands placing pressure on my hip. It's numb and stiff. I am pathetic and weak. I am the crumbs left behind from a once filling meal. Jarvan was right. What about Valor? Where is Valor?

I relied on Valor, and vice versa. He is a part of me. I left him behind. I removed what little chance I had by leaving him in Demacia. My foolishness astounds me.

"Pathetic," he spits the word harshly. He's right.

Talon crouches beside me, removing arrows from his flesh. The sound is foul. The smell of his blood is like metal. He sets a health potion barely out of my reach, still smirking. He's humored and entertained by our little tiff, but I realize, as he sets a careful hand on my hip, that his despise is lost. That this battle was simply to clear his aggravation. To take out his frustration. Why does he need me? Why won't he end it?

"You won't kill me..." I question myself. I am perplexed and bewildered, pained and delusional. The words are quiet and airless and I am losing myself to sleep. In and out of a dazed unconsciousness, though I don't think I've lost enough blood to push me over the edge.

I look up from the ground, watching him simply shrug off his injuries. And I find myself idle as he shifts beside me with an unchanged expression. There is no malicious intent. He lacks the familiar daringness and despise. But he changes faces for a moment, contemplating something. And before I can say anything else, he stands to leave.

"One day I will."

* * *

><p>As I rouse I feel no pain. I recall very little from my senselessness, nor my multitude of injuries. I only remember what initially occurred. Our physical dispute among the trees, dodging and aiming. So lasting and pointless. I believe I woke once or twice, only to return to unconsciousness. I can't think of anything relevant. A migraine sets in with my excessive effort to remember. Like forgetting a word that's on the tip of your tongue.<p>

My hip suddenly hurts. The pain is stifling and it all beings to set in. I had fallen. And where was Talon?

The battle is still somewhat vivid to me. The health potion was used. An empty bottle sits in the curve of my stomach, bone dry. I was settled where I'd landed, his blade still protruded from my back, and I was covered in foliage as a form of camouflage. Dust, rocks, and leaves coated my armor. I felt dirt in my clothes and between undergarments. My cuts are hardly healing, agitated by the land. I remove his weapon from my skin at an awkward angle. The noise of ripping flesh makes me gag.

I feel dazed and pained, barely rousing from the forest floor. It's daylight. I slept through the last of the evening and night. My spine burns between each bone and at the unhealed point of entry. My hip screams...but I lack the shattered displacements from before. I blink hard at the bits of sunlight reaching my eyes through trees and foliage. Blood cakes my eyelids, and my throat cracks as I clear it to breath.

I gasp for air, as though I'd been buried, and stand with little balance. The empty potion bottle is cushioned by grass and moss as it falls from my abdomen. He'd made me drink it? Or did I do it subconsciously? So much is running through my head. So much failure and frustration. So much pain and ache. Caleb would have defeated him. My brother would have been far more successful beyond what little I've wrong sibling died that day. The less capable one lived to disappoint her city.

I think this often, but this proof of defeat pushed me to lean against the nearest tree, and place my head in my least damaged hand.

I couldn't kill Talon. I couldn't even tire him. He pulled my arrows from his body as though they were splinters. I thought I could handle him on my own. I thought I could earn justice. Instead I had lost.

Valor would be looking for me. I stand, unbalanced and agitated by my recently healed hip, and drag myself towards Demacia.

* * *

><p>I meet Valor halfway. He took to the skies in my absence, and spotted my struggling form using trees as leverage. As he lands he provides the necessary supplies in a pack, too smart to be flying beside me. But he cocks his head to the side, examining my condition with concern. I must look like death. Or maybe I just look dead.<p>

Our exchange is brief. He asks if I am okay. I reassure him. His eyes are intense with curiosity, but my own expression tells him all he needs to know. He understands, and leaves it at that. His beak nudges at Talon's blade, secure in my hand. I simply show him before placing it in the pack.

I ingest three more health potions. The feel of them working through the body is something you never become comfortable with. It feels invasive. It itches in your bones. Despite my complaints, they work. I feel relief at the lack of injuries and for a moment, I actually appreciate the common use of magic. Nothing hurts. It feels good. But I know I used them too late. The first one Talon provided me was only enough to heal severe injuries, neglecting the others. The small cuts and gashes would leave scars. Heavy ones. A part of me believes this was his intention.

Valor coos at me, and I don't know what to say. I don't know how to reply. My loss is a heavy disappointment. It's useless and sad.

"I couldn't do it."

A long silent ensues. He simple ruffles his wings and stretches his neck. His expression is unchanged, and he scoffs at my disappointment.

Valor will never judge me.

As we travel back, I begin to notice a lack of Noxian forces. A lack of marching troops, idle tents, or traveling weaponry. A general lack of everything expected during a time of war and crisis. The stillness of a treeline, surrounding a common battlefield, was a haunting and uncomfortable feeling. It causes anxiety and the fear of death. Quiet is never a good noise.

We're further towards Demacia when I piece together that Noxus has yet to direct troops to battle. They are either late, and hopefully lacking, or this particular battle has been delayed due to weakening forces in both parties. It's a common complaint...too many dead to construct an army. Too few troops to properly fight. Maybe an epidemic or massive tragedy. Or perhaps this is the work of a mutual peace? Something to end this war? The thought itself was unlikely.

Even Valor shares his discontent with the unbroken silence.

Jarvan's sources had given him the date of their attack. Maybe they were wrong.

In an evening's time we approach Demacia's borders. And as I look up at the great city-state, what I've fought and bled for, I begin to wonder if I am capable enough to belong to this prideful and just civilization.


	4. Loyalty

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: Please review? I'd appreciate more constructive criticism or additions in the form of reviews. Always boosts my moral and gets me to write! Thank you!

**Chapter Four: Loyalty**

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><p>He embraces me, but I feel no enthusiasm. I lack the eagerness I usually return. I still have no idea if I love this man, or if his demeanor, status, and accomplishments have just wooed me into submission. If that royal charisma simply swayed me towards his righteous thinking.<p>

Jarvan IV sets a massive hand on my head as though a sibling, further aggravating my headache. I was home, showered, and covered in scars. Scars that will remind me of my shortcomings. Despite my failure, he nods as though accepting. And I stare at him with nothing to say. Like a mindless child, ignorant, wrong, and humiliated.

I had previously informed him of my endeavor. I'd left a document on his desk stating my departure prior to my leave. I had to report to him upon my return. I couldn't undermine my superior more than I already had. If it had been anyone other than a Demacian hero, he'd have their citizenship revoked.

"He had me. He could have killed me." I admit that I live because of his own cockiness or mistakes. I was bleeding out, and he was over me. Watching me die. Watching me and mocking my vulnerability. Taunting me like a moron, downed and without defense.

Jarvan just watches me, sympathy etched into his brow. He embraces me again, pity leeching onto my skin. It demeans me even further. I feel like Talon had been a ghost, almost. I feel nearly haunted. Damaged by how easily he'd beaten me, criticized and laughed at me. Even with all of the arrows I had in his chest. The one I'd stuck in his shoulder. His legs. His hands. He works past pain, as though he doesn't feel it. I underestimated him.

"It was a mistake, Jarvan. Pursuing him."

"You took initiative. You fought for justice rather than drowning in your own defeat and pity. It's respectable." He seats himself behind that infamous desk he rightfully despises. I'm still in pain. I'm still struggling to stand there with a straight face. As clean and as comfortable as I am, the discomfort of my wounds still stings me.

"Thank you."

I know where he's going with his tone if praise and achievement. His charismatic smile and kind choice of words. His royal stature portrays a man of Demcian pride that shines upon congratulating a murderer for killing Noxian scum. The hypocrisy I sense reminds me of Talon's disreguard for honor. I watch Jarvan's expression falter. He's going to reprimand me despite his honest admiration in my venture. But I can't feel spite; it's his job as my superior. An attempt at a Noxian life is a risk, and a crime against both states. In peaceful times, it would be considered a deceleration of war.

"Given the current circumstances, there is no reason not to pursue a threat to active forces. However, you deliberately placed your own life in danger, and disregarded your position within this army for personal matters. It will not happen again without permanent repercussions." He sighs, but still displays himself as collected. His smile is forced, and his eyes are still...lacking.

I kept it covert. I imagine that should anyone else know of my endeavor, he'd be forced to publicly execute me, or expel me from Demacia. Yet another stressful situation I've thrown at him. Something personal to top off the chaos he faces in Valoran. I was told he'd just recently rallied and enlightened troops. Which means I'm confronted with what's left of the confident, excited leader he shows to his men. The reality of his persona has yet to recur from the stage act he uses to boost moral. However, it's more relieving than insulting. And far more uplifting than demeaning. He gestures to the chair opposite from his side of the desk, inviting me to sit as though I am important. And being where I am needed fills a bit of the loss I had endured. Whatever loss that may be.

I decline and stand. The silence that follows is uncomfortable and foreign. Not like what we'd sit through before, as friends. I'm beginning to wonder what's changed. I ask myself what is different from days ago to now. Instances after my personal dispute, and moments after I'd thought I'd been dead.

"They have yet to send troops." I say it with hesitation, recalling the barren wasteland of what was supposed to be the battlefield. His facade falls and his demeanor is serious. The hand is removed and what I accept as the truth returns with little animation.

"It's temporary. Swain sent a representative days ago. Both states are concerned with the damaging effects of magic on Runterra. Demacian and Noxian leaders came to a consensus, preventing the extreme use of magic throughout the remainder of the war." He tells me as though it were a bad thing.

"You don't believe they'll keep their word?"

His tone is even and his answer is quick."Noxians never do."

"When will the bloodshed occur?"

"Are you in any condition to fight?"

"I am."

"Good. Two days time."

"Not much of a delay."

"Noxian generals and Demacia's council want this out of the way. One longs for justice, the other craves power. This battle could be a turning point." I think about it. I considered how often the land was scorched and ruined. The deformation of Runeterra and the fall of so many landscapes. The movement of once pristine land, morphed and reformed into obscure and unstable ground.

I fold my arms and watch him roll his shoulders back. "And the extreme use of magic?"

"We abide by our word."

The second silence that we allow is tense on my end. I finally conclude that I'm no longer comfortable in his presence. But he's preoccupied with other things. His mind is wrapped around this war. He carries internal conflict, waged between his morals and responsibility. You can see the frustration and thought in his face.

"What do you need me to do?"

"You'll be first to go, flank the right outskirts of the battlefield early on. I'm sending you with Ara. Movus and his secondary will keep eyes to the left of us. Valor will fly between all parties. You will survey weaponry, ability, and numbers, then return upon completion of your task. They will track enemy movement, and continue to send updates through Valor. Return with summaries prior to enemy confrontation."

He's never ordered Valor and I to separate. Our usual dual scouting was a small kindness he's shown to us as a friend. But Valor is his own hero, and his own individual among the ranks. I imagine he'll relish in the attention, and miss very little of me. Either way, I'm prepared to battle. I miss the thrill outside of personal vendettas.

"Understood."

"This is a brief battle. But a war has never lasted this long. This could turn the tides in their favor. Noxus has disposable youths that overflow their city. Their military would be replenished by the end of the battle. We lack their numbers. A loss this large could be detrimental." He scowls, more speaking to himself than conversing with me. He's staring off, distracted.

Jarvan's fingers are laced as he leans forward on the desk, and I find it odd that his hands are bare of his armor and gloves. He has a bitterness in his eye now; not so dead and lacking as before. More hateful.

"Then why did they urge this fight? They made it sound of the utmost importance, meeting with Swain." Demacia's leaders have always distressed me. They play games and mock their opponents, so confident and full of themselves. It is only now that I begin to see the hypocrisy, laughing and throwing their soldiers into fire like reckless children. Throwing a tantrum because things are not as they desire.

"The threat of Noxian invasions," he says.

It is said that Noxus never wanted a war. Their conquests were strictly to the East of Valoran, hardly breaking West towards Demacia. They say Demacian's witnessed the inelegant lifestyle and demanded change, making threats against the citizens and political leaders. History states that Demacia, for justice and strength, declared war on Noxus due to moral disagreements. Because what we thought was wrong had to be confirmed to our lifestyle.

And the Rune Wars sparked, leaving bloodshed and disaster to scorch the land. There was no regard to consequence. Summoners and champions ravaged the land with magic and sorcery. Catastrophe, still abundant, but less detrimental. A institution is being spoken of, one that vows to preserve Runeterra and moral beliefs. Neutral and without allegiance or favoritism. They want to call it the Institute of War.

"Quinn," he starts. "Remember, we fight for honor and for justice."

He's reassuring me. He can sense my lack of loyalty, he can see my bond with this great city fade with each death and battle. He senses it in my words. I can tell from that look he's giving me. Warning.

I only nod. And that simple action is apparently all he needs. He stands, the chair scraping the floor, and looks down on me from his massive height.

"Demacia," he salutes to me. His fist over his heart and his eyes laden with stress and hopelessness. I stand straight, sick to my stomach.

I salute him in return. "Demacia."

I turn to leave. My head is spinning. I have no focus. I question everything I've ever fought for. My faith is now in myself and myself alone. But I have no reason to fear or doubt Jarvan. He has only ever shown me kindness and appreciation. He's tolerant and strong-willed. And I stood there to persecute him with indifference and paranoia.

Talon. I think of Talon. He's put this mindset in my head. The little things he says. Single statements that make me question my home with good reason. Making me question honor and loyalty by example. Both foundations of Demacia itself. I have no one to blame but myself.

"Quinn." I turn back and smile at him reassuringly.

"Jarvan." I mock him jokingly, but his expression is serious. It's strange to me.

"You placed your life in his hands. It won't happen again."


	5. Blood

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.**

A/N: This is a long chapter. I mean long. 5,316 words. Please review for all this effort? I'd appreciate more constructive criticism or additions in the form of reviews. Always boosts my moral and gets me to write! Thank you!

**Chapter Five: Blood**

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><p>My most recent evening had again plagued me with nightmares. I dreamt of the bodies I've witnessed on the field of battle. I again witnessed the several scouts Talon has slaughtered right beneath my nose. But I still can't recall their faces or names. This time I dozed off talking to Luxanna, and woke because of haunted thoughts and regret. Bloodied hands and limp bodies, blaming me. Looking at me with a hatred instilled upon their death. Pointing. And Talon harasses me like a ghost yet again. Staring and judging and following me. Our confrontation did nothing but worsen my guilt. My mind in constantly clouded. The little sleep I actually need was not an option anymore. I'm still falling apart.<p>

Upon walking home I sense it. The very familiar feeling of being watched needles up my neck. My hair stands. Valor is perched upon my shoulder, wings draped over my back. I send him flying to survey the area, focusing on the dimness of alleys and the faces of passing people.

There was no suspicious activity that I could catch. He returned to me without warning or complaint, calling me paranoid. The day was cool and the streets were lacking. Clouds hung over the horizon and threatened rain. The sounds of a nearing battle struck fear and hesitation in the hearts of most civil common borns. Families cherished final moments and others celebrated a chance at honor. Either way the streets were dull and the bars were full. The individuals walking were perhaps without family to speak of or see off. Maybe soldiers taking in and admiring what they call home.

But people still crowded the cobblestone. I count ten. Anyone could be the infection into Demacia, plaguing my senses and causing me anxiety the day prior to battle. It's intentional. I sense Talon among them. Any woman or elderly man could be a simple disguise. But they all seem Demacian. They walk with pride and arrogance no matter their stature or poverty. It all appears usual. I quicken my pace and make an unfamiliar turn out of caution. I wouldn't lead him straight into my home. I wouldn't direct him to the only safe haven I can rest in. I head towards the shoppe district. I needed more health potions for the upcoming battle anyway.

Valor still tells me I'm paranoid.

* * *

><p>It can't just be me. I can't be the only one who sees him in the corner of my eye. I feel him staring. I can catch the faintest scent of leather from a distance. I believe myself partially, but most of me is convinced that I've been pushed to the brink of insanity. I've been taunted and left for dead so often that I'm more confused and paranoid than grateful and appreciative of life. I'm admittedly tired, flustered, and far more light on my feet. I stare more behind me than I do forward. I send ice over my shoulder simply to determine if I've been stalked. The irony stings me as I recall my own profession. I've followed so many people, and yet I'm offended to be followed myself.<p>

He's made himself so popular in my own mind. He's a constant topic of discussion between my ego and subconscious. A ghost that touches my thoughts and toys with my logic. I despise him, and yet I respect him as a rival. I feel a need to speak with him. I want to ask him so many questions. Converse and civilly come to terms with what we've done. I want to remove this plague from my head and return to normalcy.

I purchase several for a very steep price. My concerns are still elsewhere. Money has yet to impress me, nor worry me. But I find my fingers toying with change and seeing blades in small reflections. Feeling anxiety and a rapid heart beat at the memory of Talon standing over me. I recall the taste of dirt and blood as he set that potion on my abdomen. I remember laughing at how many arrows I'd embedded into his skin. I remember his face and his hair. The color of his eyes and the hatred they initially held, directed at me. Brown. Intense. Vivid and calm. Emotions that were infections.

The feeling of being stalked never fades. I walk another hour. I circle shoppes and do laps around the slowly dying marketplace. The cobblestones begin to hurt my feet after several hours. I look back and fourth between the thinning crowd of people. I meet every set of eyes and look at every head of hair. I examine postures and seclusiveness. I know enough about him to point him out of a hundred man crowd. His height, his weight, his style, clothing, features, favorite food, favorite knife, friends, associates, enemies and pass times. Through the years and research, I know more than what any Demacian archive can provide me. But I need to know more. I need to find a weakness I can take advantage of. And yet I'd searched prior to our confrontation and found nothing I hadn't already known.

Valor tells me I'm being ridiculous. I finally agree to go home.

Upon entering, I realize that a distinct smell has wafted over the room. A subtle shift in environment peaks my concerns. I close the door behind me, tensing. Evening sunlight trickles into the front room from the window. I can sense a distance change. Valor glides onto the balcony from the outside, perching on the ledge and pecking at the glass door impeding his route. The door was oddly closed. Things are altered. Armor. Books. Scrolls. My artwork. My arrows. All out of place yet seemingly untouched. They have yet to move from their exact places, and yet I sense the difference. The conforming smell of the forest leaves my nostrils. The room smells of leather and metal.

Leather...and metal.

He was in my home.

Valor screeches a tone of warning, muffled by glass. I hear his wings flap violently and shift multiple documents I'd had on my outside desk. Talon's standing there, as though he'd appeared with a gust of wind. Death looms over me again.

"You'd think Demacia's Wings would live in wealth." The voice cuts me. I feel nauseous. My heart is rapid. It feels like it's stopped. The pain my hip endures in the instant I see him is all subconscious. I stand straight and feel for my shiv.

I look to Valor past the glass and see that his mood is beyond hostile. He slams himself against the glass, but as we stand there and exchange vile expressions, it occurs to me Talon did not come here to kill. That tells me enough to breath, and hold up a hand to tell Valor to quiet himself. I send my bird a warning glance, and he screeches in response.

"Get out." Defensiveness bleeds from between my clenched teeth towards Talon. I feel them grind and ache my jaw.

He's leaning against the doorway to my restroom. He holds up two hands in mock surrender, shrugging and smirking. Playing this endless game of cat and mouse. My calm is yet again irked. Caleb would be so disappointed, watching me wallow in anger.

"This is significant," he says. His voice is one of depth and low tones. Viciousness and experience in every spoken word. Articulate and educated in an odd manner.

I'm angry. I'm too angry to listen to him. I'm not fearful or confused. The initial caution I felt boils to rage. His audacity to invade my home, stalk me, and rifle though my belongings strikes a fire in my belly. This overwhelming burn in my chest makes me agitated and restless. The expression on the lower portion of his face is smug and entitled. It infuriates me to no end. The feelings that ripple my blood are indescribable. A mixture of numerous things, all various and confusing. I was still angry. I still felt heat in my face and tension in every limb of my body. To look at the man who could have killed you, and yet be incapable of looking him dead in the eyes. Not because of fear or hesitation, but because of a fucking hood.

He begins to speak but I'd rather not listen. As he opens his mouth I stride forward and throw a fist into his jaw. I hear my hand crack at the joints. The pressure is dense and the action itself is too swift to evade. Talon hardly loses balance, recovering quickly and without retaliation. I'd anticipated more of a physical reaction. Or even a quick defense to counter my initial strike. But he just stands there and smirks at me with a hand on his jaw. Displeased and yet mildly humored at my reaction. I want to punch him again.

Valor is gone. Probably to warn Jarvan IV. My hand aches. There's a redness that swells my knuckles. It was worth it.

"Get out of my home." I hiss the statement. I want as much aggression in my voice as I feel in my heart. I despise this man. A murderer of so many innocents. A calloused Noxian assassin with a red reputation. The man who nearly killed me, and yet didn't.

"This is strictly business," he says. "I bothered to come here. You'd be wise to listen."

"I wanted to settle our dispute and we did. You won, you've proven your point. There is no business. Now leave." My tone is so deadly that I find it hard to believe I'd spoken. The actual rage I feel seethes from my lungs. I catch myself rubbing the scar he'd left on my neck again.

"I had no point to prove." He steps closer and lessens the distance between us. From four feet to one. He looks down on me like I'm a child.

"Then why allow me to walk away? Why not just kill me?"

I again sound like I wanted him to end my life. I'm beginning to think I'm subconsciously suicidal. Talon just stands there, arms crossed and hood still low. Posture lax and expression blank. He's so close I can hear him breath, and even that upsets me. His expressions and clothing just piss me off. I notice he again lacks the cape of knives. Probably something I should be thankful of. Even so he still threatens my life. He's standing in my home. Watching me. Armed. He could easily make a move to kill me. I have multiple plans for the situation of being attacked in my home, but he's proven himself superior before. I doubt I'd succeed the second time.

"Say something!" I yell at him. My patience has always been relatively thin, but in this instance it's nonexistent. He looks at me with a specific glare. His throat is tense for reasons unknown. I finally meet his eyes and he averts his gaze, examining the books littering my room.

"You didn't kill Du Conteau." The rigid posture he displays tells me he's uncomfortable. He's scowling. His eyes bounce back and forth from my dresser to my desk.

But his deceleration confuses me. I'm not sure what he means. Is he denying it? Insulting me? Saying I didn't have the power or strength to? "I did."

"Your hand did. You did not."

I realize he's here on politics. I roll my eyes.

"Why are you really here?" I can taste the venom coming out of my mouth. I'm proud of my ferocity and defensiveness. Not once do I consider myself narrow-minded or unreasonable. I don't want to listen to him. I want to kill him, but I dared him to kill me. Foolish. "Get out of my home."

"This is no longer about revenge, girl." He scoffs at me. "This is about closure."

"You want to know how he died?" The look on my face must have been odd. Because he shrugs off my expression and looks towards the window to look for Valor, avoiding eye contact.

"Every detail," he says.

I wonder if I should lie. In a split second I decide against it. "It was quick. Without public humiliation. By my hand and by the command of Demacia's leaders. In an honorable way."

"An _honorable_ way." I can see his anger rising again. I see his chest heave beneath fabrics as he scoffs the word 'honor'. He stares daggers at me, livid. His knuckles are pale as he makes fists. I see him rage internally.

I realize that standing there with my hand on my shiv would do nothing. I force myself to relax and sit at my desk to face him, taking all the oddities of this situation into consideration. But I brush all that off, because Talon wanted answers and I can see it vividly in the scowl of his face. Part of me wants to give him what he needs just to make him go away, and another wants to slash his throat and die doing it.

"I despised that man for the people he murdered. But I respected him, as hard as that is to believe. It's why I captured him even after he killed two of my best. I thought that he'd live a good portion of his life in prison; paying time for his wrongs, being miserable and sitting for hours thinking. But they demanded a public execution. He deserved to suffer for what he'd done, not die for it. I felt that we could sway his loyalty, make him realize that Demacia represented some of his better beliefs. Gain a political ally." I recall my arguments with Jarvan IV. He supported the execution due to his unyielding hatred of anything Noxian. I felt he wasn't considering the more humane and smart options. I was too young and stubborn to just listen to my superior. But I think he appreciated my fervor. Even on such a delicate topic of Noxian and Demacian politics.

"I demanded that my general void the execution; I even made my voice known to the courts. But all we could do was keep it a secret. He made sure both Du Conteau's capture and death left no breadcrumbs nor any targets for his daughters to take revenge on. And when they told me I'd have the 'honor'...I made sure it was quick and painless."

I remember that instant with every detail. The usual sound of my arrow. The way it cracked into his skull. I remember how willing he was to die. I recall the look on his face.

Talon lacks a voice for a long while. I can see him rolling over the thought. Frustration and disappointment are etched into his features. His disinterest turns to very mild mourning as he sets a hand to his forehead out of exhaustion. I wonder if I should have said anything to begin with. If I should have threatened him out of my home. Maybe I should have tried to kill him.

"Why did you need to know?" I ask him simply because I'm suspicious. A monster like Talon had no emotions or legitimate relationships. There was no love or consideration. He killed to kill. He's a Noxian.

But the look on his face tells me otherwise. That simple expression displays vivid faces of emotion and actual distress. And it's fascinating to watch someone I've never been capable of hurting suffer. It's a very cruel form of punishment. And yet I still lack any sympathy. All I can think about is the countless he's murdered. I hold only anger.

"I'm tired." He pauses. "_She's_ tired."

Du Conteau's daughter. The more dedicated one of the two. Katarina.

"I understand that." He shrugs his shoulders and scoffs, avoiding blame. This conversation makes me uncomfortable. My rival sits in front of me and makes awkward conversation about the man he respected whom I killed. It was all distressing and confusing. I felt far more calm than I should have been.

"His last words?" He looks at me, expectant. Staring at me through the dark of his hood. I examine the lower potion of his face, taking further note of the scar upon his chin. I'd seen it a few times before, and identified him by it once.

But his question strikes anxiety in my stomach. And I again think back to the day where Du Conteau was bound before me, set upon his knees on the marble of the execution chamber. Staring at me with a calm sort of venom that made me nauseous. His eyes were sharp. The red of his hair reminded me of blood. The strength he held in his stature was impressive, even when bound. He was naturally loyal to the Noxian way and belief, and was born with a deep hatred of anything Demacian. I had aimed my bow to the very center of his forehead. I killed him.

His lasts words are not something I reflect on often. But as I recall it more and more, their meaning evolves. "You're fighting for the wrong kind of honor."

He's gone as soon as I answer his questions. Talon leaves through my window so swiftly it's startling. I hear the lock flip and his clothing swipe against the balcony doorframe. I don't catch his entire departure; I blinked. I stand there for a long while. The meeting is still haunting, and part of me thinks it'd been a hallucination. It's still uncomfortable and it pains me the moment I realize it's over. He left here unscathed. Like some unwanted relative invading my privacy rather than a rival of warring nations. It occurs to that I truly can't kill him. I'd allowed him into my home. Had idle conversation. Exchanged civil words and allowed him to walk out my door.

I can't kill him. And I don't understand why.

* * *

><p>The front lines are bathed in blood and filled with havoc.<p>

I watch men fall, dead before they hit the mud. I watch others prevail with no celebration, and move on to the next kill. I bolt in from the treeline and fight as planned and commanded, but I don't belong here. This war zone of destruction and agony is not familiar or comfortable. It's crowded and smells of rot, blood and death. It's difficult to adapt to. Small amounts of magic are used. I see distant clashes of light from various spells illuminate the graying sky. A Demacian Mage is impaled as she casts a protective spell over a comrade. A soldier successfully thrusts his sword into Noxian scum. Even war dogs rip the throats of their enemies.

The ground is red and they sky is gray with rain and fog. Silver, black, and gold reflect small rays of light as armies clash. I catch a Noxian raising his mace to crush the head of a decorated soldier. I kill him with a well-placed shot before his weapon strikes, then move on.

The rain is heavy, but it can't cleanse this field.

I anticipated blood, but not gore. Not entrails and pain and fire and pleads of help. Not severed limbs and rotting bodies, elderly and young. I stare at a child as he lays dead, crumpled under marching feet, eyes lifeless as they point in my direction. Noxian laws incorporate children into their military. Boys of twelve are enlisted; generals with such a horrid mentality lack morals. Though one would argue that they have to.

I'm always before the front lines, in enemy territory. Not among them, pushing towards victory. I'm away from this catastrophe, far beyond these lines, searching for weak links and assassinating leaders upon occasion. I realize that none of my scouts have joined me, and I assume the worst.

I pressure myself to be quick. More so than usual. I dodge bodies and duck between clashed swords. I launch arrows without a pause, holding my breath as I make my way further up the field, stepping over carcasses and rolling off the preoccupied backs of fellow Demacian's. Valor screeches above me, swooping down to assist comrades. The restless roar of a dragon and the swift sounds of conflagration indicate Shyvana has further initiated. I see red light plow through enemies, wings cut through soldiers and knock away weapons. She extends them and screeches, demolishing multiple assailants.

The air becomes a ghastly fog further back, it conceals a multitude of soldiers and causes distress around the ranks. Singed assaults the battlefield and releases death in its gaseous form. The poison seeps so far, killing both Noxian and Demcian alike. And Shyvana stumbles back, lacking her once monstrous form, and suffers a sword to her shoulder in an attempt to avoid inhaling toxins. She falls and gasps, breathing heavily at the pain. I see her struggle, angry and stunned and shrinking as she loses strength.

I hold my breath, covering my mouth and nose with a heavy masking cloth, and endure the animosity and death that would scorch my lungs. It burns my eyes and pricks the skin, like a thousand needles trying to break flesh. Men beside me fall to their knees and vomit red. I drag her morphing body as far as I can go, attempting to haul another young man on my back. They all die around us. Enemies and allies. Choking on their lungs and hurling their entrails. I still cover my face, unwilling to inhale.

The need for oxygen is agonizing. It only takes a moment before I realize that the man on my back is long dead. I heave his body off and further pull Shyvana to safety. I lay her behind our ranks and among charging allies. She quickly regains full consciousness, bolting up as though rousing from a nightmare. The stoic expression still defines her as she nods at me, hand to mouth as though she were nauseas. I regret leaving her side, but I did.

I run back to attempt a second rescue. All I see are men still fleeing, noses in the crook of their elbow. Bodies litter the field. The grass is black and dead. My skin burns. I assume Shyvana still breaths due to her uniqueness. The poison never lasts long. I pray it dissipates.

The battle still continues, around or past the quarantined area. The front lines have migrated further up, far beyond what just occurred. I press on, firing arrows. I kill so many without consideration. I aim to push our army to victory. But my advances prove worthless. I continue too far, coming to the very edge of where both armies fully meet. Fear suddenly freezes me in the most dreadful of ways as I break near the front of my army, towards the center of the bloodshed. I stare upward in horror, losing my once instinctual and quick pace.

There he is. The Hand of Noxus. Darius, Swain's only good card. His massive stature alone sends me stepping back. He walks with a strong swiftness in heavy strides. His expression is malicious and yet oddly commanding, handsome with power and authority. A highly educated man with the force of an army behind both his axe and his words. An individual with a dangerous reputation and strict command. This is someone to fear. Someone you do not fight alone, or at all.

With a single, well-placed swing he slaughters two of Demacia's men. Slicing their torsos from their lower bodies. The blood sprays. As I blink, he approaches me with a look of recognition. Those beside me retreat. I am too preoccupied to be afraid. Too distracted and frozen from awe and terror. I feel a heavy spray of blood drench my face as more men fall. I can only stare, backing away.

His gaze fixates on me. He's aiming for me. And I knew I was dead.

I visualize a gory end. His approach is like watching a knife break the flesh of my abdomen. There was no escape or alternative option, because my mind is blank and I become dumb with fear. The dread and frustration I feel is heavy. It reminds me of my pursuit of Talon.

I feel sick.

I need to _move_.

I _have_ to _move_.

_**Do something**_.

I finally will myself respond. I launch arrows, firing a constant row in his direction. I know I didn't miss. But he keeps pressing forward without notice of the metal piercing his flesh. He uses his axe to swipe away incoming projectiles, slapping away my assaults. He slices three more men as he gains on my retreating form, his interest understandable. He finds a single, familiar, Demacian face and pursues it until satisfied. Having encountered him before only proved myself a valuable target to destroy.

I have to leave the battalion. He'll continue cutting men down in pursuit of me.

I look back to fire a second time, turning but not halting my retreat. Arrows and more arrows. I reload again and again, but he pushes through them. We're to the west of the battle, away from Demcian soldiers. Nearly one-on-one as I keep running, far more swift than any armor-heavy Noxian. I glance at him. My arrows protrude from his body, but they don't faze him. He works through the pain, like Talon. It must be a Noxian thing, to ignore your nervous system. A far off Mage casts a spell to slow him, but it does little to halt his pursuit.

He gains on me and slings his axe, catching my side by the blade and pulling me towards me. I feel the gash but the pain doesn't register. My armor takes most of the damage and I counter him swiftly. I fire again, jumping forward and sending my feet into his chest. He doesn't stumble back, he simply takes a defensive stance. Valor is not with me. I fight this alone and without crucial attacks that we often duo. My chances are looking worse by the second.

He swings at me, too close for any form of comfort. I play avoidance and duck beneath his arm, running behind him and rolling off his back to swiftly change positions. I take my shiv from my belt and stab his side between sets of armor, then roll away as he attempts to grab me. I fire a set of three, then a single shot to the head. He steps forward in a low stance to dodge, and cuts me again. I stumble back and choke at the massiveness of his hand around my neck. He tosses me like a child's toy, taking the upper hand. My ankle twists wrong and I'm out of ammo. The blood loss disables me. I struggle to stand.

He's so close now, making quick work of my execution. I can only wince at the pain. The odds of survival are less than none. As he continues to approach me, I become exhausted. The pain sets in, and I realize that I'm tired. I've lost yet again, and this time the end is so close that I hold no fear of it, nor do I want to escape it. I have no time to be afraid or honored. Despite this imminent threat I allow myself an brief instant of calm. I catch my breath and stand there, still feeling for ammo.

He's mere yards from me when he raises his weapon, the axe seeming to cover such a far distance with it's handle alone. And it's so swift that I can barely think. I feel how wide my eyes are as he gains on me. I taste the blood I bit from my lip, and choke on the damp air. In the instant he begins to bring the axe down, I hear Valor.

"Quinn!"

My heart is racing so quickly that it scorches my chest. The pain is unrelenting and I hardly hear my name as it resonates through the clashing of metal and sounds of magic. I can hear my pulse and I feel talons pierce the skin of my right wrist in a messy, quick movement. The flesh rips in Valor's grip, I hear it. My vision is blurred with mud and armor...running soldiers and moving weapons. A calamity of war and constant vigor that blinds me. I stumble a good distance away, rolling to safety. I look up to see that Valor is okay, which relieves me. He'd pulled me out of the way, and now flys further into enemy territory. Adrenaline pulses through my veins, intoxicating my ability and fortitude.

I try to stand to join him, but the lack of balance and pain I endure stops me, pushing me down to a single knee. And as I look up, I hear my superior scream my name in a tone of downright agony. He sounds devastated, though he appears fine. I watch Jarvan IV pass me by at a rushed pace, leading more men deeper into the front lines. He separates from the herd and clashes weapons with Darius. His expression is one of fierceness, anger, and determination. I had never seen so much fervor in his eyes, nor so much tension in his shoulders.

Their personal duel is strictly brute strength. I imagine it will last until they are the only two remaining. As he shoves his opponent back, Jarvan looks towards me over his shoulder, expression shocked and regretful.

I lose their figures between more men and bodies. I sit in mud on the cold ground far behind the ongoing carnage. My knees sink further into small rocks, mud, and pooling rain water. I'm bleeding more than I'd thought. I look down and see myself in a red reflection, crimson with disturbances from sprinkling rain.

I'd been thrown about like a rag doll, tossed around the field of battle. And as I move from the ground, head heavy and body sore, I feel a constant pain in my left arm. I look at it, disoriented and confused. This world in spinning and concentration is nearly impossible. I set eyes on my wound and lose breath. My throat dries at the sight alone. I hyperventilate, constantly distressed. It's gone. A bloody stump of dirt and bone resides where my dominant arm once shot arrows. The gory mess of ripped muscles and hanging tendons nauseates me. It was as though he'd only cut halfway before my arm was tugged from the blade. The pain is more than I can comprehend. I sit on my haunches and stare, a silent scream caught in my throat. I have to find my arm.

Where is my arm?

I lost my arm. I lost my arm. I lost it.

I see it among dead bodies, a few yards away.

I feel myself panicking. All this blood. All of it. My arm. The blood.

I see Talon in the treeline, looking at me.


End file.
